


Changing Light.

by hennethgalad



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anar, Gen, Ithil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-17
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2021-02-07 21:24:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21464755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hennethgalad/pseuds/hennethgalad
Summary: The march of Fingolfin from Lanthir Lammoth to Thangorodrim.for the SWG 'Start to Finish' challenge."It was night again."
Kudos: 5





	Changing Light.

  
It was night again. The birds fell silent, a shocked, listening silence in which the elves felt, rather than heard, the sounds of their own breathing and the pulse of their hearts. Above them, the rusted iron walls towered like the black cliffs that split the north of Beleriand in twain; they were the river, and this was the dam.   
The more cautious, seeing their quandry, urged immediate withdrawal to a position of safety, or at the least, defensibility. They pointed to the mountains, that the Sindar called Ered Wethrin, and spoke of fortification.   
But Fingolfin had a fey gleam in his eye, and spent long standing alone, gazing at the immensity of the gate as though his sight could pierce the barbed iron, the black shadows and the reeking pits, to where the bane of Finwë, and of Fëanor, skulked in brooding silence. 

  
At length the members of the council, gathered behind Fingolfin, turned to each other, and to Lindir, the navigator. But Lindir, who had been distraught when the light of Anar had veiled the stars, was weeping, his eyes cast up to the stars of Varda, muttering the words to the song of Elbereth and turning slowly as though to be certain that all his beloved stars were in place, unhurt by the glory of Anar. The burning of Ithil had terrified them, and the motion of Anar, swung hither and yon across the strange blue sky, had bewildered all, even the very wise.   
  
Galadriel watched Lindir closely, until he stood, and his breathless mutter slowed. She stepped before him and quietly spoke his name. His head lowered and his eyes, shining joyfully, met hers "The stars of Varda, my lady ! All is well !"  
Galadriel smiled at Lindir "I too rejoice to see the stars. But Lindir, what will happen ? Will Anar return ? Will Ithil return ? Is this a warning from Valinor ? Or from Eru himself?"  
Lindir tilted his head back and narrowed his eyes "My lady, I study the stars, not the Valar. If you would know their thoughts, you must seek other counsel than mine. But how can I answer the least of your questions, how can any, here in the remote east ? It may be that your own father, the wise lord Finarfin, has knowledge of these matters, would that his thought could reach you here ! But I... My lady, we cannot know. These are new things in Arda, and we can only watch as we have ever done."  
Galadriel nodded slowly "Thank you, Lindir, do you keep watch, and we shall strive to find wisdom amidst our amazement."   
Lindir bowed, but almost immediately turned his gaze back to the stars, this time whispering their names. Galadriel smiled and looked around at the others. Fingon was with her brothers, she stepped closer and spoke softly.  
"Fëanor is dead. Maedhros is taken. Fingolfin is... grieving. We must choose our course."  
Aegnor, his eyes brighter than ever in the sudden darkness, glanced briefly at Lindir "What does our navigator say ? Will the light return ?"  
Galadriel shrugged "He knows no more than we. How should he ? Yet I think that henceforth we shall not be left alone with the stars. In some manner, I am certain, either Anar or Ithil" she paused and lowered her voice "Perhaps both... I am sure that they will return."  
Fingon snorted "In the meantime, this is no place to camp ! We must find water, and building materials, and this grassy plain, however lovely it was under the lights, has neither. Nor could we rest, here before the very gate of our foe. No, we must withdraw, perhaps even as far as those mountains."  
"You would merely withdraw, at once, without striking a blow, from the doors of the one who slew our grandfather, and our uncle, and has captured our cousin ?"  
"We must be practical, Angrod !" said Fingon, "It is romantic to dash ourselves to pieces on these" he gestured up at the vast gates, vanishing into the darkness high above "On these monstrous gates, but that would merely add to the satisfaction of our foe. No, we must withdraw, and fortify, and prepare our defences."  
Finrod sighed "I came here to live, not to perish ! But my heart burns with wrath for the losses we have endured...  
Yet our foe will not forget us. I fear that wheresoever we roam, Morgoth will pursue us, and hunt us down. It may be that we should explore this land, and choose our own battlefield, for we can be certain that in time he will attack."  
Fingon nodded vigorously. Aegnor turned to Galadriel, but Angrod spoke in a faraway voice "Water, and building materials..." they turned their eyes upon him "The lake of Mithrim, beyond the mountains."  
Fingon frowned "The sons of Fëanor have it. We shall not trouble them."  
But Aegnor exclaimed angrily "Trouble them ? I would drag them to Helcaraxë and shove their faces into the ice should I but see one ! Trouble ! By the void !"  
Galadriel sighed "We have much to consider. But this is no place to find wisdom." she looked pointedly at Fingolfin, then dashed forwards.  
  
Fingolfin was pressed against the dread gate; his long hand spreading pale across the fouled, rusted, pocked and corroded metal, shocked her deeply. He seemed to be listening.   
Ignoring all formality, Galadriel seized Fingolfin and turned him roughly away from the gate. "Fingolfin ! My lord ! You are needed at council ! It is gravely urgent !"  
Fingolfin seemed to awaken slowly, blinking at the concerned faces around him, then slowly gazing up at the stars. "What is the judgement of Lindir ?"  
Galadriel pulled him gently away from the door, and the counsellors moved in behind him, keeping him from the black maw. "Lindir knows no more than we, we have determined that withdrawal is wise, for we are ill-provisioned, even in the matter of water, and we need time to consider our course. Finrod suggests that the enemy will pursue us wherever we go, and Aegnor wants to take the lake of Mithrim from the sons of Fëanor. What is your counsel, my lord ?"  
"The lake, yes.   
I myself should like to face Morgoth where he slew my brother. I would choose to hold the pass, there is water aplenty there, where Sirion rises. But first, we must get our people to safety. The lake... We shall march to the lake." He paused, his face seemed empty of thought in the dim starlight. "I do not think that the sons of Fëanor will dispute our path."

  
Lanthir Lammoth stilled their song. The rise of Ithil and the bone-softening relief of walking finally on firm rock, after the terror of the ice, had turned every word to song. The snow was left behind, and the new, old country spread before them; they strode eagerly onward, their voices rising joyfully to greet the passing of Ithil, and the waxing and waning of the light of the stars.   
But as they drew nearer to the mountains, seeking Fëanor and the way east, their song came back to them in harsh discordant echoes, mocking their triumph in broken splinters of sound, brushing them off with the cold indifference of the ice. The musicians and singers begged for silence, profoundly disturbed by the tumult.   
The echoing mountains did not relent; their quiet steps became a broken hiss that taunted them, rising and falling among shrouded peak and deep shadowed vale. But Finrod and the scouts, ranging far ahead, had found the trail of Fëanor, and Finrod himself found the smoking ruin of the Teleri fleet, abandoned on the dark shore. 

They were silent in council when Finrod returned. The wrath and anguish were set aside as they strove to fathom the purpose of Fëanor, but none could offer insight. At length, Fingolfin shook his head. "I vowed to follow where he leads. His trail east is plain, the scouts say. And the swiftest path to the thought of Fëanor is to find him, and to ask him why he..." his knuckles gripped the arm of his chair, and in the silence they heard the grinding of his teeth. But he breathed carefully, and sat back in his carven chair, and spoke no more.

Ithil laid his mantle of light on the black waters of the Firth of Drengist, a glittering path deeper into the vast unknown country, the land of Cuiviénen, of Elwë the lost, and of the Unwilling, who had never taken the westward road. Those most learned in the ancient songs were consulted at length, but no maps had been made, nor distances reckoned, and as the wise pointed out, the very land itself was prone to change, and under the sway of the Valar.   
They walked on, into the unknown, into the dark cavern, and the black tunnel. Fingolfin ordered lanterns lit, Finrod strode ahead with his scouts, though the path was clear, and the diminished host, still grieving the lost, followed silently behind.  
Turgon found himself walking beside Glorfindel, whom he knew to fear the dark. For a moment, pity for another stirred him from the stone-hard grip of his own grief, and he turned to smile "Glorfindel ! I hope that this tunnel does not trouble you ?"  
Glorfindel smiled and gestured around at the many lanterns "Sire, I have been in rooms less bright ! Though" he lowered his voice "If by some strange mischance, all our lanterns were to darken, that would be another matter. But I have faced darkness, I am certain that my fear would not overcome me."  
Turgon smiled "The tunnel itself does not trouble you ?"  
Glorfindel took a breath, then smiled back "No sire, for there has been no trace of Fëanor or his people, nor any sign of the enemy. Unless some vast pit of horror awaits us in the darkness, I am certain that those who went before us found an end to this tunnel."  
Turgon nodded slowly "Yes. They did not turn back." he sighed "Finrod will find the way through, I am certain of it."

They stopped in groups at the cavern where the Star of Fëanor was graven into the rock. None spoke, but many wept, to know that such a sign had been made, could be made, and had not been defaced. Their hearts were lighter as they marched on into the darkness, out of time. 

The cheer was louder than that which had greeted their first steps on land. The sound of relief and joy filled the tunnel, echoing cleanly down the carven passage, as they stamped their feet and sang with eager longing for a glimpse of the stars. And at last the light of Ithil, and of the stars, grew around them as they poured forth into the west of Dor-lómin, singing as they came.

Angrod had begged again that the march be halted, not for rest, but in order that he and others could capture in art some of the newfound beauty of Ithil the Sheen, and the faint echo of the Light of Telperion sharpening the shadows. But Fingolfin and the rest were filled only with the thought of finding Fëanor, and they marched on, and on.  
The air was still, their song silent, the meads slept around them, gentle rolling hills reaching to the distant wall of mountains gleaming like a fallen necklace. Angrod gazed about him; the elves marched in silence, all was well, but somewhat in the air disturbed him, some pending doom drew nigh, his skin began to prick, he ran a restless hand through his hair, and wondered at his own lack of fear.   
To the south the land climbed into a low range of mountains, but before them the wide lands stretched, vast beyond the reach of thought, offering space for dreams of homesteads of great comfort, and for boundless wandering. Angrod was torn between the desire to press on into the unknown and to pause and look about, and, stranger still, the urge to turn, to look over his shoulder, and he knew that his skin pricked most intensely at his back.   
Above him, the sky was changing. He doubted his eyes at first, but the light was growing, the colour of the sky had taken on a hint of blue. He closed his eyes and opened them, and looked at Ithil, high in the east. His light was steady, and unchanged. But in the west, the blue soaked up the sky like a garment trailed in water, paler and paler. Angrod turned to those about him, but none seemed aware. He hurried forwards to where Lindir marched behind Fingolfin, and spoke urgently.  
"Lindir, do you turn and observe the sky !"

The march was halted; they watched in silence as the light grew slowly, and to their astonished ears came the unexpected, familiar sound of birdsong. Through the whole host of gathered elves a sigh of indrawn breath sounded, and none there present ever forgot the music of that first bird.   
Thick with joy and faintly quavering with unshed tears, the voice of Fingolfin called them onward, and ordered the banners raised high, and caused the trumpets to sound, answering the call of the bird. Other birds had taken up the challenge, and as the light grew the chorus filled the air, and the elves gazed in delight at each other, eyes shining, as Lindir spoke urgently to Fingolfin. But Fingolfin would not pause, and they marched on, until the new light spread across the sky before them, and at last Fingolfin turned his head, seeming to awake from his single-minded dream, to face the western sky. It was as though the Trees were rekindled; the colours of light climbed the sky, from pale gold at the hem, rising through to flaming red on the thin lines of cloud that hung grey against the pearl and opal fading into blue high above.   
The birdsong was a torrent, the elves almost trembling with the thrill of expectation, longing to see what wonder of the Valar would appear. But all were unprepared for the glory of Anar, and all raised their arms to sheild their eyes from Her fiery glance when first She rose. And rising to greet Her, sweet among the singing birds, the flowers unfolded their fingers and reached for the Light, and their colour and their scent brought the very gardens of Yavanna before the minds of the elves, and they wept, and sang with joy as their shadows lay long before them.

  
The news of the death of Fëanor finally caused Fingolfin to rest the march. Galadriel thought through her list of those needing care and turned to Idril. To her relief, Írimë was beside the grieving daughter of Elenwë, but she moved to sit on the other side of Idril, who turned with a faint smile, and nodded once. Galadriel sighed, and clasped her hand for a moment. But in a voice as full of wonder as any child of the Light, Idril spoke "My lady, dear aunt Galadriel, does this" she gestured to Anar "That is to say, do the Wise think that the Trees are rekindled ? May we return to Valinor ?"  
Galadriel smiled "Alas, the Wise are in turmoil of mind. Yet all are agreed on this, that the Light is a sign of the continuing favour of the Valar, at the least. For little sign of our Foe has been found, his creatures are fled, and since there has been battle, it is considered that they do not flee us, but the Light itself. We cannot say why, the Enemy himself does not fear the Light, we cannot say why he has instilled fear of it into his creatures unless it be harmful to them in a way he did not foresee."  
Írimë laughed "Perhaps it heals them of his malice, and it is the loss of their loyalty he fears ?"  
Idril laughed with her, and Galadriel smiled, but her mind was busy with thought. Could these creatures be healed, could they be restored to the Light ? She thought of Fëanor, burning away to nothing at the moment of his death. She thought of the contrast between his beauty and the foulness of his deeds. She looked at Idril, laughing in her grief, and remembered the dreadful death of Elenwë and wondered if she herself would ever be healed. So many needless deaths, in the shocking darkness, that the feeble rays of Anar seemed only to increase. Galadriel longed for the Trees, as she longed for home, and wondered at herself, quailing so soon, even as hope rose like the new Light among the elves.   
But the death of mighty Fëanor had shaken her belief in the strength of the Eldar, for if even he, the most powerful of all the Children of Eru Ilúvatar, could be slain at first battle, and Maedhros seized, then what chance for the rest of the elves ? Doubt filled her heart, clouding her joy with fear, and the laughter of Lalwen rang false in her ears. she turned her eyes to her aunt, who tilted her head to one side.  
"You have had no rest, my dear, have you ? Your brow is knotted with care. Take a little miruvor and sleep. Fingolfin will not march while the council is sitting."  
"I should be there, so should you, but we are in such haste that much has been left undone. I fear we shall face the reckoning when time allows, or sooner."  
Even Írimë frowned at this, but Idril looked over the shoulder of Galadriel to where the Grey Elves conferred with Fingolfin "They are so dark ! No. Not dark, dull... Have we, has the Light of the Trees made such a difference to the elves ? Were we once as they are, dull and dreary ?"  
Galadriel turned her head briefly, then looked into the wondering eyes of her neice "Fëanor has been slain, scarcely arrived in this land, yet these 'dull, dreary' people are alive. You will recall that Aegnor lost his place in the hunt of Celegorm when the Trees failed, for his eyes shone so that the fell beasts were aware of him. We can have no stealth in the darkness, but these dull, dreary elves move like shadows, silent as snow. We may have much to learn from them."  
At that moment Fingolfin sprang to his feet, and all around him heads turned, and silence spread like poured oil. "Children of Eru Ilúvatar ! Our lords; my father, and now my brother, are slain. Maedhros is taken by the treachery of Morgoth ! We must march on, we shall call him forth to battle, avenge our fallen, and scour this land of his creatures ! Here are the fruit and the flower, scions of Telperion and Laurelin, sent to aid our cause ! Come, my friends, let us lose no more time, but march on, now, to victory !"  
There was a moment of stillness, but Galadriel felt the abyss of doubt, of the doubt she felt, echoed among all the eldar, doubt in Fingolfin, and doubt in their own strength. But only a moment. They rose as one, and Fingolfin raised his arm in the signal to march, and the column moved on.  
But Galadriel turned to Írimë with questions in her eyes, and saw them mirrored in the once laughing eyes of the sister of Fingolfin, and of Fëanor.

  



End file.
